The Southern Stack

Some nachos are built for speed. The Southern Stack is built for staying put. It’s the kind of platter that makes you question your life choices halfway through — not because it’s bad, but because it’s too good in the kind of way that feels slightly illegal.

The base is classic: chips fried to a crisp golden tan. But instead of standard toppings, you’re met with chopped chicken fried steak, gravy poured like it was blessed by a Southern grandma, and cheese that refuses to pick a side. Somewhere in the mix, a jalapeño makes a desperate attempt to count as a vegetable. It fails beautifully.

There’s no balance here — just layers of crunch, cream, salt, and bliss stacked until gravity becomes a problem. It’s not trying to be clever or trendy. The Southern Stack exists for one reason: to prove that comfort food and chaos can coexist.

You don’t eat it with dignity. You eat it with both hands, mild regret, and a napkin you’ll abandon halfway through. And when it’s gone, you don’t mourn — you rest.